Yours for Eternity: A Love Story on Death Row

by Damien Echols

  As I read through these letters for the first time—it took me a while to do it, long after they had been transcribed, because I was scared—but as I read through them, I was taken back to every emotion, every longing, every painful moment, every fear. But most of all, I was made aware of what a miracle it is to have Damien with me, right now. There are times he lays his head in my lap and I stroke his hair, and I am overcome with amazement. I still walk into a room to see him and can’t believe he is here with me.

  Lorri

  [Undated]

  Lorri,

  All I know is that I’ve got to get the hell out of here. I’ve reached the critical point. The machine is spinning full speed, and I’m holding on so tight my hands have no blood in them. In my head I can see one of those cartoons from the New Yorker—it shows Dennis talking to a skeleton covered in spiderwebs. He’s saying, “Don’t worry, the longer it takes, the better!” When I do those public talks, people will be shocked. Liberals, defense attorneys, anti–death penalty groups—I’ll talk about them just as much as the state. Imagine—we may not have to deal with the state at all—the judge may just throw the whole thing out and dismiss the case. In fact, if they can match the handprint, that’s exactly what I’d bet happens. No deals, no bargains, no trials, nothing. First stop—to get my wedding ring sized. Second stop—the dentist. Then a long and meandering ride wherever we want.

  Damien

  postscript 2014

  December 31, 2013

  The last day of the year, and I’m spending it on the streets of NYC. It’s both a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing because there’s nothing and no place in the world that is more magickal or meaningful to me. I can feel the way time has wound down and come to a grinding halt on this gray and velvety day. It has the melancholy air of something coming to an end, but also the excitement of something new beginning.

  Art, art, art—my brain is alive with it these days, almost overwhelmingly so. This is one of the reasons I’m so fiercely in love with NYC. Not just that she is MY city, that she loves me and conspires with me to make tiny pockets of magick within her dark places—but the art. My God, it’s everywhere. The city is saturated in it, drunk on it. From the biggest, most highbrow museums to the graffiti on every vacant wall. New York does not only inspire art—she is art. She turns life itself into a strange and glittering work of art.

  Every art form in the world can be found on these streets, and every variation on that art form. For example, I have a friend named Vincent Castiglia who does giant paintings entirely in his own blood. Another friend, Jen DeNike, orchestrates performance pieces, which usually consist of naked girls doing various divination techniques.

  For me, it’s photography. I’ve come to love creating and capturing images. I’m nearly obsessed with it. I want to create dark and velvety scenarios that take the breath away. I want to use photography as my gateway into the realm of sensuality and debauchery. I want to bring every decadent desire to the forefront of the viewer’s consciousness. To make them crave something more than the mundane existence they’ve been told they have to settle for. And New York is the perfect place—the only place—to do that. After all, the entire city is a decadent feast for the senses.

  The next step I have to take is overcoming all fear. I’ve been out of prison about two and a half years now, yet I still experience fear on a daily basis. I’ve found that the only thing that breaks the walls of this internal prison is to force myself to do whatever it is that fills me with dread. Things like riding the subway by myself for the first time, or journeying into strange parts of town. The thing is, up until now I’ve eased into those things like an old man slipping into a tub of warm water. I can feel in my bones that those days are over. They say that fortune favors the bold. I want to find out if that’s true. I want to throw myself into this life with a vengeance. I want to slam myself through all the barriers that fear has erected in my soul. My body may have left prison two and a half years ago, but my heart and soul did not. Now it’s finally time for that to happen. Art will be the horse I ride to freedom.

  Damien

  january 2014

  It’s snowing again. In a matter of a couple of hours it blanketed everything. It makes the world feel so soft and quiet. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, or view it as anything less than pure magick.

  A little earlier I went outside to watch it. I stood there, sending out tentacles to feel the night more than just look at it. Everything was completely silent, surrounding me like the most comforting cocoon. Lorri came over to me and asked, “What is it?”

  I tried to explain it to her—how when I tell people that I imagine heaven to be a place where it’s always winter, this is the energy I’m trying to convey. That to a ghost, every moment is exactly like this one. That when I am dead, this is where I will be. She just said, “I better be there.”

  I said, “Always.”

  Now I’m inside, in my safe little lair, and I feel more content than I have ever been in my life. The room is dimly lit, my tea is warm, and my pillows are as soft as clouds. All those years on death row, this is what I wished for. This is what I created in my mind to escape to, and now I have it in the physical realm. I am finally happy.

  Damien

  acknowledgments

  To my friends Shelley Huber, Susan Wisniewski, Sherri Peacock Rebois, and Julie Althoff Bush, who believed in us from the beginning.

  When I first got to Arkansas, I was taken in by Mara Leveritt and Linda Bessette. I will forever be grateful for the friendship and support you both gave us, and for all the good advice, meals, movies, and a feeling of family. I met Lucy Sauer at the prison and she taught me how to sit Zen meditation, performed our wedding, and loaned us $10,000 when the defense fund was desperate. I worked at Little Rock Parks and Recreation, and there I met Shellie Sawrey. Shellie, your friendship got me through some hard times, and you came to our wedding! I sat Zen meditation at a center in Little Rock, and there I met Mary Horne, who is still close to us to this day. Through our Saturday-night dinners I met Capi Peck, who changed my life. Capi, words can’t contain the love we have for you, and no one has ever lived so well in Little Rock as I did. We had so much fun, and you gave so much of yourself to attaining Damien’s freedom. David Jauss, our dear friend. Craig Stamper, thank you for the guidance and advice, but most of all for teaching me how to have the confidence to trust what I can’t see. Jen DeNike, who keeps us on our toes and is a dear, sweet friend. Thank you, Randall Jamail for the excellent advice and the reassurance. Jacob Pitts: our long-lost brother, friend, and one of the loves of our lives. To Kelly Quinn, for all the rides to the prison and for caring for Tellus, Elkie, and Goswyn.

  There are those of you who made my life a whole lot easier—Allen Smith, thanks for hiring me, and for letting me build my professional life around my visits with Damien. Martin Eisle, for acupuncture and friendship. Whenever I needed camera-ready hair, there was Mary Anne Britton. Thank you for all the fun times in that chair. Our book club! The Sowers, where I first learned how amazing Little Rock women were. It took finding you to bring socializing back into my life. I’m so grateful for your support. All who made up Arkansas Take Action: Our dear friends John Hardin, Rob Fisher, and Bryan Frazier, who did the unthinkable for the case, we will never forget your bravery; Claire LaFrance, Stephanie Caruthers, Holly Ballard, Tony Peck, Mike Ledford, and Mike Poe; Brent Peterson, our true friend who was always the warrior; Laird Williams; Steve Johnson; John and Laura Hardy, and countless others who made all the difference. Jim Pfieffer, our neighbor who took up the trash every week so I would have one less thing to worry about, and our accountant, Mike Johnson, thank you for everything. Our favorite Dharma teacher, Anna Cox—your persistence has created vast changes for inmates all over the country. Thank you, Emily Kern.

  Then there were the thousands from around the world who donated funds and supported us in ways from which we’r
e still reeling. In L.A.: Kathy Bakken, Chad Robertson, Burk Sauls, Grove Pashley, and Lisa Fancher ran the WM3.org website and were always there to help in any way. Damien had the opportunity to first show his art through our friend Anje Vela’s efforts. Charlotte Morgan, Nick Arons, and Gita Drury brought the cause to New York and made waves. In Seattle, Kelly Canary and Danny Bland—Kelly, your friendship, support, and legal expertise helped in more ways than you know; Danny, your 2000 benefit album set us off on a path we’re still on. Jene O’Keefe—always there and now helping those in similar situations in New Orleans. Nicole Vandenberg, you amaze us to this day. Your quiet determination, sage advice, and willingness to stick it out with us has been one of the gifts of our lives. Kelly Curtis, we know how much happened because you were at the helm. In Austin, Ruth and Bill Carter. Cally Salzman and Douglas Giametto in San Francisco, who are family to us and helped to fund Damien’s Rule 37 hearings. Stephanie Shearer and Chris Bacorn from Denver, who are ceaselessly entertaining and brought us so much fun through their letters and visits. Ruth Carter in Virginia, the sweetest of souls.

  Our core case support came from some of the most amazingly talented people living, and we have been honored to have their help and friendship. Eddie Vedder (Pearl Jam), Johnny Depp, Henry Rollins, Fran Walsh and Peter Jackson, Phillipa Boyens and Seth Miller, Margaret Cho, Natalie Maines, and Patti Smith. Then there were the hundreds of bands, artists, and writers who all contributed in countless ways.

  And our legal team: amazing, amazing, amazing. Ed Mallett, thank you for your pro-bono efforts. Dennis Riordan, Don Horgan, Theresa Gibbons, and Deborah Sallings for taking on the case when it was code red and for bringing us back to life. Your briefs stunned the Arkansas Supreme Court into granting us the evidentiary hearing in 2010. The new guard who brought about the deal with the State of Arkansas that gained Damien’s release: Steve Braga and Patrick Benca, with the help of Lonnie Soury and Jay Salpeter. Our investigators, Ron Lax, and Rachael Geiser, thank you for everything. John Douglas and Steve Mark for thinking outside the box. I always consider Fran Walsh a part of the legal team. A big part.

  The other investigation, our documentarians and their team: Amy Berg and your tireless crew, Holly Tunkel, you were all fearless.

  Post-release brought about a whole new guard who were there to hold us up, keep us safe and dry, and enabled us to charter a new life together: Jill Vedder, Danny Forster, Susie Arons, Tahra Grant, Emily Lowe Mailaender, Kevin Wilson and Liz Henderson, Sherry and Sam Chico, Lucia Coale and Ed Schutte, Brian and Lauren Consolazio, Dr. Dan and his amazing staff—Alan Russo, Julie Marsibilio, and Judith Star. Our friend and mentor Ken Kamins.

  Our dear friend Michele Anthony, thank you for feeding us, housing us, and your help in healing us. A very special thanks to Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky for making Paradise Lost.

  To our amazing, amazing team at Blue Rider Press: Sarah Hochman, the best editor in the universe; Brian Ulicky, Aileen Boyle, and David Rosenthal—thank you for believing in our story. To our literary agent, Henry Dunow, and to our lawyer, Elliot Groffman, for your enormous generosity and big heart.

  This book would not exist without Geoff Gray, who brought the idea of a story about letters to us in 2010, and Lindsey Stanberry, who transcribed thousands of our letters and gave us the loveliest of book titles. Thank you!

  We suppose we’ve have left far too many people out, but we are so very grateful to everyone who was there for us. A shout-out to my sister Bunkey, and I want to send a special thank-you to my parents, Harry and Lynn Davis, for taking care of me, and for providing stability. Without that and God’s grace, we would not have endured.

  Lorri and Damien

  about the authors

  Damien Echols and Lorri Davis met in 1996 and were married in a Buddhist ceremony at Tucker Maximum Security Unit in Tucker, Arkansas, in 1999. Born in 1974, Echols grew up in Mississippi, Tennessee, Maryland, Oregon, Texas, Louisiana, and Arkansas. At the age of eighteen, he was wrongfully convicted of murder, along with Jason Baldwin and Jessie Misskelley, Jr., thereafter known as the West Memphis Three. Echols received a death sentence and spent almost eighteen years on death row until he, Baldwin, and Misskelley were released in 2011. The WM3 have been the subject of Paradise Lost, a three-part documentary series produced by HBO, and West of Memphis, a documentary produced by Peter Jackson and Fran Walsh. Echols is the author of the New York Times best-selling memoir Life After Death (2012) and a self-published memoir, Almost Home (2005).

  Lorri Davis was born and raised in West Virginia. A landscape architect by training, she worked in England and New York City until relocating to Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1998. For more than a decade, Davis spearheaded a full-time effort toward Echols’s release from prison, which encompassed all aspects of the legal case and forensic investigation. She was instrumental in raising funds for the defense and served as producer (with Echols) of West of Memphis. Echols and Davis live in New York City.

  * As Damien has explained elsewhere, he and I made “moonwater,” out of water we set out on the full moon and then drank at the same time every month. It was another way of being together while apart, knowing what the other was doing and that we were connecting.—LD

  * This was a Rule 37 hearing for Damien to be appointed a new counsel, ordered by a judge, as part of his appeal process; the Rule 37 is the procedure to prove that the original trial attorneys were ineffective, and that effective representation would have resulted in a different outcome. It was Damien’s first time outside of prison in three years—he was painful to look at, dressed in prison whites, hair unkempt, and shackles around his wrists, ankles, and waist. He was terribly thin.—LD

  * I set up a virtual phone at one point—there was a company that figured out that a local call from the prison had a surcharge and then a horrific minute-by-minute charge; there was no “local call.” So this company set up a local phone number for a customer to be forwarded from the prison—a middleman, essentially. I cut out the middleman, setting up a virtual local phone number in Tucker, Arkansas, so Damien would call, and the call would be forwarded to me, then my cell phone. Eventually the prison found out—I told a few other people about it, who had set up their own local numbers, too—and threatened to take my phone number off the list completely so Damien wouldn’t be able to call. At that point I had multiple numbers, so that if one was shut off, we’d try another—it was a miracle when call forwarding to my cell phone came along—I was no longer stranded, and Damien could reach me anywhere.—LD

  * Melissa was a colleague of Damien’s lead counsel, Ed Mallett, at the time. Cally is a dear friend and, officially speaking, Damien’s adoptive mother, who had been writing letters to Damien from nearly the beginning of his incarceration. She and her husband, Douglas, funded Damien’s entire Rule 37 appeal.—LD

  * The father of one of the victims rushed the bench during Damien’s Rule 37 hearing. He was restrained and quickly escorted out of the courtroom.—LD

  * We were only permitted to have six people, some of them witnesses, attend our wedding in the prison. It was terribly hard to decide who to invite, although the reception afterward at a friend’s house was attended by everyone we knew and had become a part of our circle. I was excluded from the celebration, of course; while our friends and family toasted our union—and the love of my life—I sat alone in a prison cell.—DE

  * Paradise Lost 2: Revelations

  * It turned out we did see. We saw a lot from Eddie, Nicole Vandenberg, his publicist, and the entire Pearl Jam family. They played huge arena concerts, donating their incomes to the defense fund. Eddie played a private birthday party for a guy from Microsoft who in turn donated $300K. They were constantly looking for ways to help, and were always there when we needed them. When, in 2009, it made sense to put on a concert in Little Rock to raise awareness before the Supreme Court hearing, Pearl Jam donated all their time and energy and manpower to put on the show. Nicole and Ed came down to
help Lorri the week before our release, and Ed’s home was the first place we went afterward.—DE

  * This was in reference to my Jukai ordination ceremony in the Rinzai Zen tradition of Japanese Buddhism, the first step toward priesthood. I had been practicing Zen Buddhism for probably two years at that point, and this was the point at which my teacher presented me with a Koan—a puzzle that cannot be solved with a rational mind—in a ceremony conducted by two priests.—DE

  * This was a screening at the Hot Springs Documentary Film Festival of Paradise Lost 2, and there was a discussion panel at the end of it. I don’t recall who the specific people were on this panel, though it was entirely different from any other screenings of the film I’d been to, because they invited people from both sides of the case to weigh in. The room was packed and emotions were running very high; it was the first time the film had been shown in Arkansas.—LD

  * Damien was offered $2,500 for his appearance in Paradise Lost 2, which for various reasons he couldn’t accept at the time of filming, so it was funny that Joe’s donation was so very similar . . .—LD

  * Frank King was the deacon from the nearby Catholic church who used to visit the prison. Freddie Nixon was on the board of the Arkansas Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty, but also a friend and support to the guys on death row.—LD

  * Dr. Phil was trying to get us to do a show, or a series of shows, about the case. Thank heavens we decided against it. It wouldn’t be until 2007 that we started doing media in earnest with some guidance.—LD